


Do Not Disturb

by Abidatchery



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: F/M, In Autumn, Missing Scene, Ransom is the worst, Sexual Tension, is apparently my thing, motel sexy times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26234344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abidatchery/pseuds/Abidatchery
Summary: “What do you suggest?”“We find some shitty motel for the night.”"Won't they be likely to find out? Won't that look suspicious?""Relax, you can just say we hooked up. Oh, actually, you can't," He laughed, white teeth glinting, then looked over at her. "Unless you want to make it true?"-Or Ransom decides they should probably lay low after the diner, so they go in search of a motel.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 15
Kudos: 129





	Do Not Disturb

**Author's Note:**

> okay. we're all aware Ransom is The Worst, and this scene ive dreamt up takes place straight after the diner, when Marta thinks she can maybe trust him. BUT that sweater did a lot to me, and I think Marta could do with the distraction....

The ride from the diner was a silent one.

She watched the red haze of trees sweep past the window of the beamer, crisped and gnarled leaves that were beginning to tumble in earnest against the chilled winds that swept through Massachusetts at this time of year. The air smelt of bonfires, smoky and earthy. 

Ransom said little from the driver’s seat. She supposed he was thinking, she hoped he was. She hoped that he would come up with some failsafe idea, that some of Harlan’s brilliance would sweep through him suddenly and fix all that the grandfather had overseen.

(He was doing something of the kind, yet spiteful and twisted. But she couldn’t know that)

She shivered.

Ransom turned up the radio, with a rustle of the wool coat he wore. She felt clumsy next to him.

“I’ve been thinking,” He said, and she dragged her mind into the recesses of the car, back to focus, “When I said you should lay low. Maybe you should avoid going home tonight.”

“What do you mean?” She asked, pressing her fingers to the rubber lining of the car window, digging under it. It was cold against her skin.

“I mean I wouldn’t put it past any of my family to show up for some theatrics on your doorstep.” He replied, not looking at her. Eyes stoutly on the road. He was still wearing his sunglasses, even though the sun was gone, nothing more than a pale wash of light to the west to indicate it had ever been. She might joke about it if she felt she could, if he was anything other than who he was. 

“What do you suggest?”

“We find some shitty motel for the night.”

“‘ _We_ ’”?

“Yup,” She didn’t like the way he said the word, he popped the ‘p’ like he was blowing gum, “I would quite like a night off from Thrombey theatrics myself.”

“Won’t they be likely to find out? Won’t it look suspicious?”

“Relax, you can just say we hooked up. Oh, actually, you can’t.” He laughed, white teeth glinting, then he looked over at her, “Unless you want to make it true?”

He took in the expression she wore, which she could only hope was unimpressed. His lips were working, but she couldn’t see what was in his eyes.

He looked back at the road.

“Relax,” He said again, like that was anything she had in her power to do.

“This is so messed up,” Was all she said, and she sunk lower in the seat, pulling at her scarf.

For someone barrelling forwards from a background of privilege, Ransom seemed rather adequate at finding shitty motels.

The Colonel Mustard Motel, when Marta looked up to observe it as the beamer pulled in, was a single storey construction, all flaking white paint, low eaves and windows with flimsy gauze curtains half drawn across the interiors. It was dimly lit despite the evening hour, a smattering of streetlights sending down wreaths of orange light as Ransom pulled up, looking smug.

“If I didn’t know you were probably the nearest murderer in the state,” He told her conversationally as he switched off the engine, hauling a bag off the backseat, “I’d feel much more concerned about getting killed here.”

With that he kicked open the car door and clambered out, slamming it behind him.

She jumped at the noise, and followed him out of the car.

The night air was cold, she followed Ransom sheepishly towards the vaguely signposted lobby. He burst through the doors with the same amount of subtlety he could have achieved if he had driven the beamer through them instead.

“Shouldn’t we be,” She searched for the words as he pressed repeatedly on the bell set on a worn desk, “I don’t know, trying to blend in?”

Ransom took his sunglasses off, glanced pointedly at her before looking away, which she took to mean he was compromising.

An unimpressed employee materialised some time later, and in the kind of automated tone that suggested he had said it several times that day already, informed them that half of their rooms were undergoing maintenance, and they only had one free twin bed for that evening.

“We can provide WiFi, free expanded cable, limited room service, we regret that our jacuzzis are currently out of order.”

“Do you hear that, Marta?” Ransom said, voice dead, “Free expanded cable.”

He paid for the room anyway, and Marta looked on in horror as he was handed the key.

“One room?” She hissed after him as he marched from the lobby back into the car park, the receptionist looking after them with the air of someone testing whether it’s safe to return into the back for a nap.

“Yeah, we can push the beds together and talk about our hopes for the future.”

The beds, it turned out, when Ransom unlocked the door to Room 7, were already pushed together.

The room was small, the beds were the main part, aside from a small bathroom on her right, the light in it flickering when she switched it on. She moved into the room, slowly, plimsolls scuffing the worn carpet, listening to the blare of someone sharing the joys of free expanded cable next door.

Ransom cast his bag to the floor, shrugged off his coat and scarf, throwing them onto the nearest bed, sending a rush of air past her.

“Want a drink?” He asked her.

“I don’t think they have a minibar.”

He snorted at that, and picked up his bag, dumping it on the bed, unzipping it.

“Which is why I have this,” He produced a bottle of whisky, it glinted in the light, contents slopping.

“Oh,” She said, “It looks expensive.”

“Yeah,” He let out a dry, humourless laugh as he unscrewed the top, “You can start getting used to it now, I guess.”

She sank onto the free bed, putting a hand to her head.

“Don’t,” She mumbled, “I’m still processing.”

She heard him move, and jumped when something cold touched against her bare cheek. She jerked upright, and saw it was the bottle. He was looking down at her, face closed. She took it, hesitantly, and touched it to her lips, taking a swig. It burned her throat, stripping it.

He smirked when she coughed.

“Yeah, you really need to get used to that,” He said, taking the bottle and depositing it on the shelf near the door. “I’m having a shower.”

He yawned, turned away, and threw up a hand to tug his sweater up over his head and balling it the floor. She looked at him, aghast.

He glanced back at her, as if to check she had seen, met her gaze, and smiled. With teeth.

“Like you never wondered.” He said, and she supposed he could only be referring to his naked torso.

“I didn’t.” She told him.

He gave a bemused shrug, tugging the corners of his mouth down, and stepped into the bathroom.

She paused a moment, muttered "Oh no," then ran to the window, hauled it open, and threw up onto the grass below.

She shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was disappointed.

She busied herself with dragging the bed away from its companion as the ricochet of water to the shower’s floor filled the room. He was humming something, a tune she didn’t recognise. She was mystified at his apparent tranquility, composed in a way she didn't think he had ever been before. She had only seen him at the estate, barbed, ready to prickle tempers and watch the results with smugness. Maybe that's what he was doing now; watching the chips fall, letting it shatter about him, revelling in the chaos. 

(That's exactly what he was doing)

Her stomach was churning, the taste of whisky was hot in her mouth, but she felt some kind of peace from having told him everything, from having had another soul to tell it to, even though she couldn’t trust the blankness of his expressions, the aversion of his eyes.

But perhaps she was now the most settled she had been in a week; this turbulent, nightmare week. There was some kind of plan, Ransom had given it to them, and that was a lifeline amongst this boiling sea of fear and guilt. Even if the lifeline was slippery, and she felt it might break in her grip when tested.

She sat on the bed nearest the window, leant against the headboard, and stared blankly before her, not seeing the scratched table and laminated room service menu, but instead Harlan and the last expression she had seen on his face.

The shower was hit off abruptly, and Ransom emerged into the room seconds later, dripping, towel about his hips.

She wondered if this was another game. Probably.

She didn’t want to play, so she shifted herself about and faced the window, determinedly watching the lamplights outside, the trees waving in the chilled wind, and not his reflection in the dark pane.

He laughed at her, unkindly.

“She’s a prude even after getting old men to slit their throats for her.” He said. “Are you hungry?”

She wanted to reply to the cruel remark, but couldn’t think of anything. And she _was_ hungry, her last meal sat rejected in the grass just beyond the gauze curtains.

“Yes.” She said.

“Room service it is.” She heard him cross to the menu, pick up the phone, swear at the sticky key he encountered as he dialled reception. She closed her eyes, trying to cancel out this motel, Ransom, all it represented. She opened them again and checked her phone. It lit up, making her squint, no messages; from Blanc, her mum, Alice, noone.

She closed her eyes again.

He was being charming on the phone, it was odd to think he could be. He reeled off some choices to whoever had picked up, likely not the unenthusiastic man before. He said something humorous, the person at the other end of the phone laughed shrilly.

The phone landed back in its holder with a crash.

“Did you move the beds?” He asked.

“Yes.”

He laughed again, and the bed dipped as he sat himself at the end of it. She opened her eyes.

“Come on, Marta,” He said, “Relax a little. We’ve got this under control, you’ve got me helping now.”

“I can’t relax,” She told him, sitting up, dragging her knees up as she retreated to the headboard, leaving him at the end of the bed. He watched her, with that same guarded face. He was still dripping from the shower, water fell and stained the bed sheet below him. He smelled of the shampoo the motel had provided, something cheap and musky. “How can you say that? There’s so much to do, so much that could go wrong. And should I even _want_ to fight this?”

He kicked up a foot, hitting it onto the bed opposite that she’d so painstakingly shifted, before dropping it down to the carpet again. She watched him, the muscles shifting in his shoulders as he propped an arm out behind him. He wasn’t at all hesitant, or shy, it was oddly hypnotising to watch.

“My grandad wanted this for you.” He told her, “Jesus, look at what he did to give this to you. Of course you should want to fight this. If not for yourself, then at least for him, you know?”

She bit her lip, and he met her eyes.

“I mean it,” he said, and he was suddenly serious, brows lowered, lips straight.

Maybe he did, maybe he meant something for the first time in his life. Maybe it was because he was due his share if she did fight it. Maybe she should stop caring what his motives were if he was prepared to help her.

She let out a sigh, and put her hands to her face, fingers pressing her eyes.

“Hey,” He was saying, maybe not unkindly, and she tipped slightly as he reached over, weight shifting them, and he closed a hand about her wrist, “Look at me, Marta.”

His hand was hot, fingers about her wrist, pulling her hand away from her face. She looked at him. He had moved closer, the towel had slipped some more, she was horrified that she was trying not to look, that the temptation was there.

“What?” She said, her throat hurt.

He was silent a while longer, looking at her, his fingers still closed about her arm, a thumb and forefinger meeting. She felt her pulse racing, beating against his grip. 

Then his lip twisted.

“Do you want me to distract you?”

The words lay in the air of that dank motel room, maybe they’d been uttered a hundred times there before.

“What do you mean?” She asked, although she knew what he meant, what he could only mean.

She wondered if he would say it. What she would do if he did.

His grip on her tightened slowly, pressure increasing.

“I can show you what I mean?”

Her mouth was dry. His eyes were still on hers.

Slowly, purposefully, he raised her hand to his mouth, put his lips to her wrist and bit lightly on the skin there.

“You’re going to eat me?” She asked, trying to make it a joke, and it might have come out better if her voice weren’t suddenly hoarse, was somehow betraying her in the same way her stomach did.

His lips twisted again, it didn’t meet his eyes.

“Sure,” He said.

He pulled on her arm, she fell forwards, let herself fall forwards, and his other hand came up to close about her waist, landing her on his lap.

Her knee hit the bed, she felt him immediately through the towel and the contact, hard against her, where she was most sensitive, sent a pulse of warmth between her legs, against any kind of better judgement.

“Oh my god,” She breathed.

He smirked.

“Have you never thought about this?” He asked her, and his hands were on her thighs, her corduroys, moving to grip her ass. Two fingers moved under her to stroke between her legs, not nearly enough through the thick fabric, merely a teasing ghost of feeling that shot through her, grinding her teeth to her lip.

“Not until right this second,” She confessed, and he hummed, low in his throat.

“That’s disappointing.” His hands moved up to run under her shirt, the heavy jumper, pushing it up, meeting her bra, fingers warm on her skin, “I suppose I’ll have to make up for lost time.”

She felt muted as he leaned up, breath hot, unclasped her bra and drew it up alongside shirt and jumper, up over her head, snagging her braids and drawing them half out. The clothes landed on the bedside table, knocking the lamp, sending light rocking about the dull room as his lips closed on her left nipple, a tongue running over it, flicking.

“Oh my god,” She said again, she didn’t think there was anything else to say.

He moved to the other after some time, leisurely, and she squirmed in his lap as his hands held her fast, fingers about her ribs, the towel making her corduroys damp, the firm press of him, and everything he was doing to her, making her damper, wet.

He kissed her on apparent afterthought, one of teeth that made her lips sting. She couldn’t even be sure she kissed him back as he wrapped firm arms about her and set her back on the bed, hands gripping her upper arms.

He kissed bruisingly at her jaw, her neck, back to her breasts.

“I’ve thought about this,” He said, voice heavy, “Since Fourth of July,”

“What?” He seemed to ignore her, and his lips moved lower to her stomach, hands dragging down her sides, and coming to rest on the waistband of her trousers.

“Of going down on you,” He eventually said, matter-of-fact, and he looked up to meet her eyes. She wondered what he saw there. “Maybe in the grounds, where the CCTV could see us. Or the study. Yeah I thought about the study a lot.”

“You’re not serious.”

His lips twisted again, wolfish. They both almost realised he wasn't. 

“Can I at least do it now?” He asked her.

Her heart was racing, she was sweating already, aching all over, for the feel of him, or someone. Something like contact, something like unity. It was clouding everything else, logic seemed to have deserted her, perhaps back on the interstate.

“Okay,” She heard herself say.

His smile was an inward bite of his jaw, his eyes narrowed.

“Okay?”

"Yes.”

He seemed to like the way she said it, he undid her trousers. She looked at the ceiling as she lifted her hips, taking in the water stains above her. The corduroys bunched at her calves, her ankles, Ransom’s hand closed over her leg, one at a time, and tugged the fabric free. She could smell herself. She felt uncertain as she looked down, seeing the pressure marks the trousers had left lined about her skin.

She met Ransom’s eye.

He held it as he lifted her right leg up and about his back, held it as he leant forwards and pressed his mouth to her, still covered by underwear, and breathed out, hot and damp. Her teeth bit down on her lip, hard enough to bruise.

“So quiet,” He said, pressing a thumb to her clitoris, “Is that a challenge?”

His thumb circled, her hips jolted, she pressed down on him, and moaned softly.

“That’s better,” He told her, and she heard the smirk in his voice.

His hands snaked up, running under the hemline of her knickers, he hooked a finger about them, two indexes either side, and began to pull them down.

She felt dazed as she lifted her hips again, letting the fabric snag and slip, to her thighs, Ransom lowering her leg to slip them further, pushing it back again to free it from her shin, her toes.

She wondered if this was happening, if it were not just some vivid dream, one that has strayed into her consciousness through the suppressed shock and muted horror of the last few days.

Then his mouth was inches from her, bared, breath about her, spanning shoulders jostling her thighs further open, hands coming to grip them, keeping her there. And his tongue was on her, feather light, running up, down and up, circling her clitoris, before then pressing there, hard.

No dream could really replicate the frissons of pleasure that caused, the stabs of warmth as he began to move in earnest, sucking, running his tongue about her. Fingers gripped her thighs, then moved inwards, joining his tongue, moving into her folds and pressing snug inside her.

She clenched tight about them, feeling the stretch, pain and an absolute need for more enveloping her.

His free hand moved lazily upwards, circling a thumb up over her ribs until it found her breast again, moving patterns over her nipple, setting it to stiff attention, tugging at something inside her she wanted to chase into the autumnal night until she lost everything she was.

She was making noises, from her mouth, from where his mouth was, wet, horrible sounds, that he didn’t seem to care about as his fingers worked and his tongue moved incessantly.

Her leg was twitching, she wanted to crawl back, away, she wanted to shift forwards, press on him and hold him there.

Her hand found its way to his hair, she couldn’t say how, fingers pressed hard to his scalp, pulling at the wet hair, shampoo mixing with the smell of sweat, and the undeniable smell of her.

He groaned at that, which surprised her, she pulled his hair again and his motions grew faster.

She gasped back.

When she came it broke upon her like a wave she had thought would not catch her; her toes curled and she clenched hard around his fingers, her thighs pressing inwards, unconsciously, against his neck.

He broke away and looked at her, face flushed, eyes dark, lips shining.

“Murders in the family should happen more often, if this is the fallout,” He told her, bringing a finger to wipe his lips, touching it to her left nipple, rubbing it in. “Shall we continue?”

She nodded, weakly, heart hammering.

He stood up then, reaching for his bag, and the towel was well and truly lost as she watched him, flushed, toned skin, the curve of his back, his ass, the strength of his thighs.

She wondered how someone so awful could look like that.

He turned back to her when he’d found what he was looking for, and she was met with the full sight of him, straining, with tapering hips, broad shoulders.

She stared.

He seemed to like her expression as he sat back on the bed and rolled on the condom. She had sat up to watch him, and when he turned to her she suddenly felt he might truly eat her alive after all. With that thought she put her hands to his chest, and pushed him backwards, forced him down, head meeting the bedsheet. His eyebrows raised, his lips twisted.

“Interesting,” He informed her, and she sat herself in his lap, stiff erection between them, and moved down and bit his earlobe. His skin was clammy from the shower, not quite dry. There was a pulse jumping in his neck, and he watched her with that twisted lip, eyes half-lidded, as she drew back and ran her hands across his shoulders, across his chest, nails passing sharp over nipples, moving down his chest, to where he strained, hard.

She held him as she moved up on her thighs, shifting before she sank slowly down.

They both breathed in as she halted halfway in, stilled, sweating, eyes locked.

The feeling of him was too much, not enough, she sank down until he was fully inside her, stretching.

“Marta,” He said, and that seemed to be all he wanted to say, as he didn’t speak again.

She slowly rocked her hips, once, twice, he breathed out, low, almost a moan. She moved again, again, quickening, finding a rhythm that sparked that hot frisson about her, across and up, down again. His hips moved with her, and the heavy slapping, wet beat of it filled the air.

“Fuck,” Ransom breathed, hands coming to pin her thighs, bruising, thumbs pressing into her. Their rhythm turned ruthless, fast and rushed, she clenched hard about him and watched his expression.

His hand rushed up and closed about the back of her neck, he hauled her to the side and onto her back as he rolled about and pushed in again. Her ankles found themselves to those broad shoulders, she hooked them there, pressing him forwards.

His breath stirred her hair as he thrust into her, again and again, arms pinned either side of her head. Everything became skin, his breath, his eyes, pinning her there. Her mind wasn't working, it had retreated somewhere to allow only the physical, to allow only what was happening to her now.

He caught at her ass and pushed her hips up, thrusting again, and she gasped as it hit something inside her. His thumb moved back to her, to her clit, and he rubbed at it as he moved. She drew her legs closer to her, trying to elevate that feeling that was filling her, filling her like Ransom as he pressed into her again and again.

“Let it go, Marta,” He commanded, breathless, and they both emitted a gasp as he rose up, pressing hard into her. “Fuck everything. Just fuck me instead.”

“Turn me around,” She told him, and he did, drawing out, pulling her about, dragging back her knees as he moved into her again, folding over her, and she welcomed him back, wet, clenching, moaning in a way she couldn’t recognise.

His thrusts grew wilder, the slapping of skin grew more rapid, his breath was hot on her neck, stirring her loosened hair, and his hand found those strands, tugging, before moving down her back, gripping her hip, and snaking under to her throbbing clitoris once more.

“Fuck, Marta,” He was panting, but his voice was still levelled, “Why didn’t we do this before, in that fucking study. You could have laid me out on that rug and ridden my face until you came. How long would it have taken? What if we'd done it for hours, me counting each time I made you come.”

“Oh god,” She said, and said it a few times more, as the throbbing built, and built, and then broke; rising up over her, claiming every inch of her body. She called out, cried something. He continued to move inside her, fingers pressing her, milking every last part from her.

She went limp under him, he was still rubbing her, sending her towards sensitivity, she twitched uncontrollably, shaking. And she felt him come, felt the shuddered noise he made blow her hair forwards.

He leant over, and bit the crook of her shoulder.

“Fuck,” He said again, muffled, into her skin.

They stayed there a moment, raw breaths filling the air, and then he pulled out of her.

He collapsed to lie back on the bed, pulling her down with him, trapping her beneath a cast out leg, a hand absent-mindedly on her stomach, his other hand coming to ease off the condom.

They lay there, panting, she felt sweat trickle down the side of her temple. His hand moved on her, fingers sweeping lazy movements that covered her stomach and skirted her breast. It almost felt nice.

“What was that?” She eventually breathed, pressing a hand to her forehead. It came away damp, “What are we doing?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and she looked across at him. He was looking back, eyes glinting, breathing still ragged.

“That was just two conspirators having some good motel sex, Marta,” He said, “As the world caves in.”

There was a knock on the door. She jumped, heart racing.

“Substandard room service,” Ransom with mock joy, and he got up, freeing her, walking to the door, “That took its time.”

She watched him move, she wondered what it was in her that wanted to call him back, wanted to take that ridiculous scarf off the abandoned bed next to them and bind him to the headboard, watch his smirk fade as his breathing grew harsh, his eyes watching her as he came undone. She had just seen something like it, she wanted it again, just to be sure. Of what, she couldn’t say.

He answered the door naked, everything about him dripping of recent sex, she really shouldn’t have been surprised at his doing such a thing. The member of staff beyond the door certainly _was_ most surprised. It was some feat that the tray was handed over fully intact.

Then the door was closed, Ransom was setting the tray down as she covered herself with the bed sheet. The TV in the next room was blaring, she wondered if it had ever stopped.

“You should eat something,” He was saying, “I promise I won’t threaten you with puking again.”

Maybe it was something like normality, she thought, as he handed her a warm plate ensconced in gratuitous tin foil, its contents a bland chicken burger, the insides of her thighs still wet, her heart still racing, hair tangled. This could be a normality of some kind; food, sex, an autumnal night that pressed cold against the window. Everything else could seep away for a bit, that it was him here, out of everyone in the world, that she was here at all; it could seep away like water into soil.

She looked at him, took him in as she unwrapped the plate, steam rising to her face. He sat himself at the foot of the bed, like he had done some uncountable time earlier, reaching for the towel to lay it across his lap, plate balanced precariously there too.

They didn’t speak, she wondered what there even was to say.

Much later, she fell asleep on that same bed, with him still at the foot of it, silent spare the crinkle of tin foil, the haul of breath from lungs.

Ransom watched her now and then, drinking his way through the whisky, considering, and thought maybe it was a bit of a shame that if all went to plan she would hopefully be arrested soon. The world was a peculiar place.

But he shrugged the sentiment of mild unease off easily enough, like a dog shaking its coat, pondered what a trusting action would be, and covered her with a blanket.

The next night, the examiner's office was up in flames.


End file.
